


In the name of comfort

by valiantfindekano



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You look uncomfortable.” There is no reason for Hawke to lean in when there is so little distance between them, their bodies now pressed together, but he enjoys the way Anders’ eyes widen in surprise, his lips parted. He pretends it’s the hand that has settled on his shoulder that draws him closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the name of comfort

A while ago it had occurred to Hawke that none of his friends—with the singular exception of Varric—seem comfortably at home at the estate when they visit. Aveline always gives an air of discomfort around him, so that is no surprise and no trouble; when Isabela is here it is usually because she needs something that should be difficult to ask for, and that always causes conflict. Merrill looks ready to bolt like a frightened deer from the second she steps into the hall, Fenris like a trapped badger…

Anders in turn looks guilty and overwhelmed. He’s explained enough times in the early hours of the morning why that is; Hawke tires of hearing it, how Anders believes he doesn’t belong in the arms of Kirkwall’s nobility and weeks later he doesn’t believe it is _real._

Fortunately Hawke doesn’t mind proving the reality of their circumstances.

This afternoon he finds Anders hovering uncertainly about the writing desk, which probably means he has been at work with his manifestos. His brow is still furrowed when he offers Hawke a greeting, and it looks as if he’s been chewing his lips as he writes.

Hawke brings his hand to curl around his wrist, and he gently drag him up the stairwell. Anders follows willingly, and even makes towards the door of Hawke’s bedroom—but before he reaches it, Hawke shifts his grip to wrap around his waist, spinning them both around so that he can press Anders against the wall.

“You look uncomfortable.” There is no reason for Hawke to lean in when there is so little distance between them, their bodies now pressed together, but he enjoys the way Anders’ eyes widen in surprise, his lips parted. He pretends it’s the hand that has settled on his shoulder that draws him closer.

“I was fine until you pushed me,” Anders answers, and at least a trace of the humour that has been absent from his voice lately is back.

Hawke grins. “But I am trying to make it better,” he explains. “You can’t be uncomfortable in your own home.”

“… Mine?” Anders freezes, his grip suddenly tightening. 

It’s a reaction that Hawke had anticipated, and he almost feels guilty for taking advantage of it. He kisses the corner of Anders’ mouth, another to his jaw. “You’ve all but moved in,” he continues, “so don’t protest now. See—“ Another kiss, this time behind Anders’ ear, which makes the mage squirm against him. “You’re free to do _anything_ here, as long as my family owns this estate.”

Anders tilts his head. A queue, Hawke knows from experience, to keep doing what he is doing, so he bites down lightly on the skin above the collar of Anders’ worn old robe, soothing it with a kiss immediately afterwards.

“Says the man,” Anders says after a moment, his eyes flickering shut, “pinning me down so he can ravage me.”

Hawke pauses, and he almost regrets that Anders can’t see his smirk. “That would include pushing me away if you weren’t interested.”

That earns him a quiet laugh, a flash of warm brown eyes once again, and Anders runs his fingers through Hawke’s hair before pulling his face close enough to press their lips together. “Never,” he sighs between kisses, and never one to miss an opportunity—“I love you.”

The clasps on Anders’ robe are difficult, but Hawke prides himself on his dexterous fingers, and they yield to him. His hand slips beneath layers of fabric to find skin, and he brushes across bony hips before he drags his grasp downwards.

Once again, Anders’ gaze flickers towards Hawke’s bedchambers. “Should we…?” His voice has gained a raspy edge, which is pleasing enough that Hawke nearly loses his resolve. A few steps away, through that door, he might demand to hear more, even encourage Anders to _beg_ for him.

In answer, Hawke curls his hand around the hardness between Anders’ legs, and revels in the way his lover exhales and arches into the touch. “I want you here,” he murmurs against the mage’s ear. _Here and everywhere else,_ to be fair; he’s had enough fantasies surrounding that decrepit old clinic in Darktown, worse ones still about the Wounded Coast at sunset…

Hawke presses a quick kiss to Anders’ throat as he eases him from the confines of his clothing, his hand beginning a slow rhythm.

“Impatient,” Anders accuses after a long moment has passed.

Hawke increases the pressure of his grip, and the last syllable of the word becomes a gasp. “I’ve been planning this all day.”

The blush rising in Anders’ face is probably not a result of that revelation. Pretty as it is, Hawke changes his mind—he withdraws his hand, grasps Anders by the hip once again, and flips them so that he faces the wall. One arm supports him while the other hand returns to its task, while Anders throws out an arm to brace himself.

From here it is easy to shower the back of Anders’ neck with kisses, to suckle against his throat when he tilts his head back; Hawke presses against him, his own need growing—but he does not tease with his touches anymore.  

Hawke brings Anders to his climax quickly, holding him tightly as he shudders out his release. For a second they remain close, Anders breathing heavily and Hawke nuzzling against his shoulder. He’ll take what moments of closeness he can get; duty may call them to opposite ends of Kirkwall soon enough.  

Elsewhere in the house, someone stirs, a reminder that they perhaps should not linger too long in this state. Maybe he risks losing his chance at having the deed reciprocated, but Hawke glances down at his hand as he loosens his grasp and cocks an eyebrow.

“Impatient,” he remarks, and nearly loses his balance when Anders shoves him in response.


End file.
